The Phantom's Manservant
by Ggunsailor
Summary: It Has been a long time. My memory isn't as good as it was, but I'll try to remember, Monsieur Leroux, as best I can....Please read and review! Chapter Four is up!
1. Default Chapter

The Phantom's Manservant

Chapter One

By

Ggunsailor

Hi there, you lucky people! Ggun here, with my first Phantom phic.

Now, I became a Phantom Phan after I saw the movie, but I love the book, and Andrew Lloyd Webber is a genius! After I saw the film for the fifth, I started to wonder: Could there have been another person who knew the Phantom's secret, who could relate to the Phantom personally because he too had a disfigurement? That's how my character, Jean, was born.

Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom, but the main character in my story, and the story idea is mine. Enjoy!

Note: Based on the movie, but a little of the book thrown in.

It's been forty seven years since…it happened. I close my eyes, and can still see the golden gleam of the statues against the red hue of the seats and curtains. I can smell the scent of the gas lamps being lit. The sound of the musicians tuning up for rehearsal, as the actors and singers prepared to bare their souls in song. So many memories, some were happy, and others too painful to recall. But you asked me to remember, Monsieur Learoux, so I will recall as best I can. I will tell you of the events that transpired, but I think I'll tell you of how I came to the Opera Populaire, and how I became associated with the infamous Phantom of the Opera….

I don't remember the year I was born, but I remember the date; January third. My mother was a seamstress, I think, and my father was a cart driver. I remember bits and pieces of my younger years, such as my mother singing me to sleep, and my father wanting me to be in the Foreign Legions when I got older. Then, I remember the accident; I was ten years old. My father had taken me with him. The day was cold and wet, rain and snow creating a screen denser and thicker than blood. That's probably why my father didn't see the other carriage in front of him. They overturned us, my father, me, and our cargo thrown into a ditch. The branches scratched my face so terribly that I passed out from the pain.

I woke up later, and my world was half-covered by bandages. I could hear the doctor telling my mama that I was lucky the branches didn't scratch my eyes out. Then, I felt her take my hand, thanking God I was alive.

"Where's Papa? Is he all right?" I remember asking her that, seeing her eyes begin to tear as she told me that the cart had crushed him. She also told that I would have the scars for the rest of my life. That didn't matter to me; all that mattered was that my father was gone.

When they finally took the bandages off, I remember my mother crying out in horror, pushing the nurse aside….and staring at my face in the mirror. Three long, two-inch wide scars started from my left eyebrow to end at my right cheekbone. I looked at them, and then in rage, punched my reflection. I fell to my knees, ignoring my bloody knuckles, as I began to cry. My mother knelt down, and took me in her arms, rocking me back and forth.

"There, there now, my love. To me, you are still handsome."

I looked up at her through my tears, amazed that she could say that.

"But Mama, how can you say that? You just cried out when they took off my bandages."

"Jean, _ma Cherie_, I expected something worse." She cupped my face in her hands. "Now, what did Papa always say? Come now, you can tell me."

I sniffled as she wiped my tears away with her kerchief. "Keep on living and life will continue, no matter what."

"That's right."

"But, if he always said that, then why is he gone?"

"Jean, God wanted your papa to home to Him. You know how your father was sad sometimes, because he missed Grand mere and Grandperre? Well, he's with them now, and I bet, that he wouldn't want you to hate yourself because of your face and stop living. He'd want you to keep going, to keep living for him."

And that's what we did for the next eight years. I finished schooling until I was seventeen, and then tried to work so I could support my mother and myself. She worked harder than I did. Sometimes I would come home from a late job, whatever work I could find that week, and she would be sitting at the table in our kitchen, sewing by the light of a single candle. Although she hid it well, the grief of my father's death weighed on her conscience night and day. Finally, God took pity on her, and led her to my father when I was eighteen. A neighbor came by to pick a dress she was working on, and found her slumped across the floor, clutching a bundle of my father's love letters to her when they were courting.

I used what money we had left to pay for the funeral service, and the gravediggers' fee. It was me, the town priest, and the gravediggers. I stood there long after they'd left, staring at the gravestone. I was alone…..no one left to love me.

Later that night, I sat in the kitchen of my parent's empty house, which my father built with his own hands, thinking of what to do next. None of my relatives would take me in, especially because…..I ran my fingers over my scars. Sometimes, the reason I couldn't find work was because of my face. They didn't want a disfigured man working for them; they had a reputation to protect. What could I do?

Suddenly, I remembered what a school friend of mine once told me. A good place to find a job was Paris. There were plenty of places a man could find work; at the Lour eve, one of the many bars and restaurants, anyplace that was in need of hired help.

That settled it. I would go to Paris. Perhaps they have a use for a man like me. Then another thought hit me. What about the house? The sight of the burning candle on the table made come to a conclusion. I got up, went to my room, and packed clothes, then enough food for my trip, and a few personal possessions: my pocket knife, Papa's pocket watch, his battered collection of books, and Mama's silver thimble into a flour sack. The tiny silver dagger hanging on a chain that my mother gave to my father as a wedding present now hung around my neck as I plugged up the chimney, and set fire to the wood and bits and pieces of rubbish. I walked out, and locked the door behind me, carrying my sack.

As I strode away from the house that I had grown up in, I felt sad, yet slightly happy, because I would continue living, just like they wanted. I would live a better life for them. I shouldered my sack, and continued walking, never looking back...

When I got to Paris, I, being a simple country person, was amazed at the grandeur of it all; the Arc'd' Triumph, the Cathedral of Notre Dame, and all the fantastic architecture that graced the city. Women in fine dresses and heavily perfumed wigs, men in their fine silk clothing and hats carrying gold topped canes swarmed the streets, walking or riding in grand carriages that had their family crest emblazoned on the side. It was all so exciting. I fell in love with Paris, and love her still today.

However, when I looked for work, the people were anything but kind.

Sometimes they would refuse, other times they'd tell me that they had no positions left or open. Whenever I persisted, or refused to leave until they gave me the job, they would throw me out onto the street, sometimes literally. I begged or stole scraps; pick pocketed, or would work, if someone took pity on me, for money to buy food. On rainy nights, I would sleep under a piece of newspaper or in a doorway. Those days were hard, and I learned many life lessons such as never steal a loaf of bread off a windowsill if the housewife returns early from washing clothes, or she'll nearly beat you to death with the basket, take my word for it. Young children thought it fun if they threw rocks at me, and called me names; "scar face" was a great favorite among them. I thought my life couldn't get any worse.

Then, Fate stepped in, and dealt a strange hand. I was almost nineteen, and it was the coldest January ever. I was huddling inside a café, when I saw an ad in a newspaper that one of the café's regular patrons was reading. It went something like this:

"WANTED:

STRONG YOUNG MEN NEEDED

AS STAGEHANDS

WILL PAY 50 FRANCS A MONTH

FREE ROOM AND BOARD

TO APPLY SPEAK TO

MONSIUER LEFEVRE, MANAGER

AT THE

OPERA POPULAIRE"

Free room and board? Will pay fifty francs a month? I got up, went over to the bartender, and asked where the Opera Populaire was.

He smirked. "What are you, blind? Look across the square." I followed the direction of his pointing hand, and saw a magnificent structure through the window. "That's the opera house."

"Thank you." I shouldered my sack, and walked out into the square. It was snowing slightly, and the wind was bone-biting cold. I was amazed at the size of the opera house. I walked up the steps, and found the same ad posted on the front door. As I opened the door and stepped into the Grand Foyer, a sudden feeling ran through me; someone was watching me. But I dismissed it as nervousness, and proceeded to find the manager's office.

If only I had known who was watching me at the time…..

Yay! First chapter's done. What surprises lie in store for our hero? Who was it that was watching him? I'll give you one guess who…..

Finished 3/2/2005 7:18 PM


	2. Chapter Two

The Phantom's Manservant

By

Ggunsailor

Chapter two

Hey guys! Well, here we are the second chapter! Boy, it took a while to finish the first chapter! When we last left our hero, he was answering an ad for the Opera Populaire, and he just had a feeling he was being watched. Bet you can't guess who it is ;)! On with the show!

Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom, but Jean, and the story idea, is mine.

Note: Based on the movie, but a little of the book thrown in.

"I'm sorry young man, but all our positions are filled."

"What? Wait a minute, what about the ad?"

"We already have enough stagehands for this season. We hardly have any room for one more."

"Is it, because of my face, monsieur?"

I'm sorry. Come back again next year, and then we'll see if we have a spot left."

I stared at the man in the dapper gray suit in disbelief, then in hopelessness. Just like every other place I thought. I mumbled a thank you, and turned to leave, when my stomach let out a very loud growl.

I felt my cheeks turn red as I turned to look at him with a rueful grin. "Err, _pardon _memonsieur. I haven't eaten in two weeks."

He seemed to study me, and then sighed resignedly. "All right, let it be known that I'm not that cold-hearted. Go to the kitchen; tell the chef that Monsieur Levre sent you. I'm sure they'll feed you."

"_Merci_, sir."

After being shown out of his office, and told where the kitchen was, I walked into the auditorium.

When I did, my jaw dropped so it almost scraped the floor. It was magnificent. All the buildings in Paris could not compare to this…. this grandeur, this majesty. It was beautiful, sensual. I have seen other opera houses since then, but none compare to my first sight of this one, and never will.

After collecting my wits, I walked down the aisles, amazed at the craftsmanship reflected in every decoration. Even the seats were beautiful. But what attracted my attention the most was the gorgeous chandelier hanging in the domed ceiling. I had no idea that that same chandelier would be the cause of so much misery later.

Wandering backstage, I found the kitchen without further getting lost. The chef was rather busy stirring a huge pot, grumbling and muttering to himself as he tasted his concoction, then made a face and added more seasoning. I tried to attract his attention, and it wasn't until I came up from behind and tapped his shoulder, causing him to jump, that he saw me.

"_Sacre bleu_! What you trying do? Scare me? Don't sneak up on me like that, it's not polite! Who the hell are you, anyway?"

"Uh, the manager told me to come back here to get something to eat."

"Oh, did he now?" He studied me, staring at my lean figure. "Well, go ahead and sit yourself down. I'll get you some soup."

"Thank you." I placed my sack down, and sat watching amused, as he bustled around the place, getting my meal. He was a rotund little fellow, who apparently enjoyed his food and drink, as evidenced by the slight gut that hung over the top of his apron. I soon was slurping down hot soup, tearing at a piece of bread, and gulping down a cup of wine.

"Take it easy there, my friend. You'll make yourself sick if you eat like that." He admonished as he refilled my cup.

"I can't help it" I mumbled through a mouthful of wine, bread, and soup. I swallowed, and then said "It's delicious."

"Really?" I nodded. "Well, that's nice to hear. Judging from your appearance though, I'd say that any food would be good to you." We both laughed as he ladled more soup into my bowl.

Suddenly, the door flew open, and a blonde young woman, followed by a curly-haired brunette and a gust of cold wind, came in, gasping "Cold, cold, cold!" The wind slammed the door shut as the blonde pulled off her hooded cloak, threw it onto a chair, then held her hands in front of the fire. Her companion did the same.

"Ah, you're back. Has it become that bad out there?" The chef asked as he walked over to the fire and took a tea kettle off its hook.

"It's a blizzard out there." The brunette answered, rubbing her arms.

"It'll get worse later, believe me." The blonde replied as she pulled a chair closer to the fire and sat down. It took her awhile to realize that I was sitting at the table. "Who are you?"

I suddenly remembered my father's words: _Whenever a lady or ladies enter a room, stand up if you're sitting, and bow._

I scrambled from my seat, wiped my mouth, and gave a formal bow at the waist. "Mam'selles, my name is…Gaston." I was surprised that I gave them my father's name instead of mine.

The blonde seemed impressed. She got up, curtsied, and held out her hand, which I kissed.

"Well, you certainly have manners. I'm Meg Giry, and this is my best friend, Christine Daae."

I turned, and was surprised at the striking beauty of her companion. Her chocolate brown eyes held no disgust for my scarred face, and her face was very pretty, almost angelic.

"It is a pleasure, monsieur." She smiled, and held out her hand. When I took it, I was surprised at how soft it was. It gave me great pleasure just to be in her presence as I bowed my head to her hand and brushed my lips across her knuckles.

"The pleasure is entirely mine, ma'am." I grinned happily at her. She seemed surprised at my pleased tone. It was a delight to be near her. The chef broke my reverie.

"You two must be chilled to the bone. Here, I made some tea."

They accepted their cups, and then pulled their chairs next to mine as I sat back down to my soup, which the chef had refilled for me.

"Meg, did you get your errands for your mother done?" The chef asked.

"_Oui_, Louis, I did." She indicated a parcel on the table. "Though I wonder why she needed five white men's dress shirts, and two pairs of silk evening trousers."

"Well, you never can tell with your mother, Meg." Christine added as she blew on her tea to cool it before taking a sip.

Meg laughed. "You're right about that." She sipped from her cup before turning to me. "So tell me. What brings you to the Opera Populaire, Gaston?" I nibbled at a piece of bread, my appetite completely sated.

"I saw an ad in the paper about needing stagehands. Just my luck that they have enough hands for this season, he says." I sighed and stared into the dregs of my wine. "But, I'm used to it."

"Why?" Christine wanted to know.

"Well, it's because of my face." I ran my fingers along my scars. "I got these in the same accident that killed my father."

Meg gasped. "Oh, that's so awful! Your poor mother, how did she handle it?"

"She didn't hate or loathe me, or blame me for my father's death, if that's what you mean. I always knew she missed him though." I smiled sadly to myself. "I remember she used to read his love letters to her at night, when she thought I was asleep, But, I always heard her."

Meg sighed dreamily then composed herself and asked me "How did she die?"

I sighed. "The doctor said she had a stroke, though I think it was a broken heart. I was eighteen."

Louis, the chef, seemed to be thinking, and then snapped his fingers. "I've got it! I could always use a hand in the kitchen. Why don't I give you a job here?"

"Really? You meant it? I can work here?"

"Why not? You look like a big, strong fellow, and I could always use a hand around here. I could only pay you ten francs a week, but you would have a warm place to sleep, and, of course, all the food you can eat. I can also teach you cook in return for what you do. So, what do you say, _Mon ami,_ do we have a deal?"

I sat back in surprise. "But what about Lefevre?"

"Oh, don't worry about that, I'll take care of him. Do we have a deal?"

I grinned, got up, and shook his hand. "Louis, you've got a deal."

The cook laughed delightedly, and turned to Meg and Christine. "You two are my witnesses, you saw this deal."

Meg grinned, and raised her mug in salute. "That's right."

Christine got up, and shook my hand. "Let me be the first to welcome you to the Opera Populaire, Gaston."

"This calls for a celebration." Louis walked over to a cabinet, and opened it. We all cheered when we saw the bottle of champagne. He took down four flute glasses, opened the bottle, and poured the glasses half-full.

"We only save this for a special occasion," he explained as he gave me my glass "Such as a successful gala, or a great final performance. But this deserves a glass." He held his up. "Here's to the new member of our family; Gaston."

"cheers!" The girls and I chorused, and downed ours. As I reeled from my first taste of champagne, I felt a sense of camadrie.

Little did I know, that my adventures were just beginning…..

Yay! Second chapter's done!

Finished 3/4/2005 11:28 AM.


	3. Chapter Three

**The Phantom's Manservant**

**Chapter Three**

**By**

**Ggunsailor**

**Hi guys! Well, here we are, Chapter Three! Wickedly laughs . Last night, I read my "Phantom Of the Opera" film companion (it has the original screenplay) while listening to the movie soundtrack (not the extended edition, though****L****). I can recreate the movie whenever I want to! When we last left our hero, he had just entered the position of cook's assistant, and met two girls who are essential to Phantom. On with the story!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom, but Jean and the story idea are mine (though I wished I owned Gerard Butler. Mmm…yummy!).**

**Note: Based on the movie, but a little bit of the book thrown in.**

**Feedback: PLEASE! **

I soon fell into the busy and hectic life of an opera house. I had Louis, Meg and Christine to help me along the first couple of days. It was very enlightening, and for the time I spent with them, I gained my undying love for theatre, and the arts. I would sometimes stand on the catwalks back stage during a performance, and watch the actors and singers sing their hearts to the audience, more than once wishing _I_ was down there, having an audience under the thrall of my voice.

I also gained distaste for several people. One was Joseph Buquet, the head scene-shifter. A rather seedy character, with a taste for wine and younger women, and very rude to some people, myself included. I found a peephole into the girl's dressing room, and I knew that he had made it, though I kept quiet about it.

Another…well, really, two people. One was Ubaldo Piangi, a puffed-up pigeon of a tenor. He had probably sounded wonderful during his younger years, but now, he was trying too hard.

Of course, I can't forget La Carlotta Giudicelli, the reigning diva, and Piangi's partner. To describe her voice as a rusty sword drawn out of a poorly-oiled sheath would be insulting, especially to the sword; it was worse than that. Plus, her attitude was always that she was better than everyone, and everyone else existed to serve her. Whenever the backstage held a party, one of the highlights was someone doing a Carlotta impression, complete with bosom. I became very good at these, along with a good Piangi.

And there was always Buquet doing his impression of the "Phantom of the Opera". Supposedly, there was a ghost of some sort, who always caused some scenery to drop, especially when Carlotta was onstage. Whenever a prop went missing, or a costume was ripped to shreds, the Phantom was always blamed.

Also supporting the rumors was, whenever he was displeased, he would send a letter to the manager, always in a black-rimmed envelope with the crimson wax seal of a grinning skull. For some strange reason, Madame Giry, the ballet mistress, and Meg's mother, seemed to be the go-between. I always dismissed the stories as nothing but rumors.

However, my mind was soon changed one day, in a series of life-changing events...

It was two weeks after New Year's Day. A rehearsal for one of Mozart's works (_The Magic Flute_, if I remember correctly) was underway, and Carlotta and Piangi both sounded terrible. Everyone winced each time Carlotta hit a high note, even Monsieur Reyer, the conductor.

I was standing, as usual, on the catwalks, watching the rehearsal. I was by myself, or so I thought, when I heard the rustling of clothing. I turned, and saw a figure in black, who seemed to be loosening a rope holding up a backdrop that Carlotta and Piangi were standing under! I watched in horror for a moment, and then ran toward him. "Hey!" I shouted.

The figure turned, and I saw the flash of a white mask. Then, he was gone. The backdrop began to sway precariously. "Look out!" I roared down below, and then I jumped.

I grabbed the rope, and felt myself plummeting down to the stage, the backdrop flying up past me as people screamed. Fortunately, it stopped, and I landed unfortunately on Piangi.

"You great oaf! Why you land on me?" He roared as he untangled himself from me. "You almost kill me! What's a matter with you?"

"What the hell's going on?" Lefevre yelled from his seat in the manager's box. I tried to answer while still holding onto the rope, which at the moment was keeping the backdrop from falling on people.

"It-falling-someone up there-loosened rope-can't hold it-HELP!"

I shouted as I struggled to hold it, my feet slipping out from under me as I tried to stand up.

"He's right!" Buquet called from his vantage point. "If he lets go, it's going to fall right on Carlotta and Piangi!" People gasped in shock.

"Well, get someone up there and tie it off!" Lefevre yelled as he began to run down to the stage from his seat. Immediately, two other stagehands, who'd been flirting with some chorus girls, raced to help Buquet. I kept hanging on until one of them shouted that I could let go, it was tied off.

I fell to the stage with a thud. Before I had time to catch my breath, I was swept up into a strong embrace, and my face was pressed into two huge breasts.

"_Grazie, grazie!_ Oh, how can I ever thank you for saving my life! My hero! My savior!"

"Can't…breathe" I gasped as I tried to wriggle out. Finally, Piangi, a little jealous at the attention the prima donna was giving me, managed to pry me out, just in time to fall backward into Madame Giry. She led me to a seat and handed me a flask of brandy to calm my nerves. The others began to crowd around me, asking questions left and right.

"What happened?"

"Did you see who it was?"

"Look! He was holding onto the rope so tightly, his hands are

bleeding!"

"Get some bandages and water, someone!"

"Everyone please, give him some air!" Madame Giry said as she motioned for Meg and Christine to move everyone out of the way. Just then, Lefevre made his way toward me. He knelt down and asked me what happened.

"I saw a man, a man in black. He was loosening the rope. When I started towards him, I shouted at him. He must've heard me, because he turned."

"How did he disappear?"

"I don't know, it happened so fast. At the time, I was worried about the people below." Well, I wasn't really; at the time I would have gladly let it drop on those two. Hey, I'm a gentleman; I had to do something.

Lefevre sighed and ran his hand through his graying hair. "All right, then. Get those hands of yours treated. The rest of you, rehearsal will continue tomorrow." And he went off with grumbling and muttering that he wasn't paid enough.

We watched as he disappeared, an awkward silence following.

"You saw something else, didn't you?"

I looked up at the chorus girl who asked me. I sighed and nodded. "I did."

"What was it?" They all wanted to know. I didn't want to tell them, for I had shown scorn for all the stories about the ghost, but I had to.

"When he turned, I saw…a mask. A white mask covering the left half of his face."

There were gasps of astonishment. "Are you sure?" Meg asked.

"Well, I couldn't really tell, there wasn't enough light."

Buquet's unpleasant voice rang out as he climbed down from the catwalks. "That proves it then. The Phantom's real." I certainly thought so, but I kept up an appearance, and scoffed.

"Don't start, Buquet. It could've been someone else. Someone who might have a grudge against Carlotta, or Piangi. Hell, I would've done the same thing myself."

"Ah, yes. But only the Phantom could have known which rehearsal, which song and the right time to drop it." I had to admit; he was right.

He suddenly grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. I could smell the alcohol on his breath as he drew his face to mine.

"Are you scared?" I blinked.

"Why should I be?"

"Let's test this theory, then. Tonight, you sleep in the theater, and prove that you're not frightened of something you've said doesn't exist."

His tone was that of branding me a coward. I couldn't stand for that.

"All right, you have a deal."

Perhaps if I hadn't accepted Buquet's deal, if I hadn't…taken part in the tragic events, so many lives might've been spared. I close my eyes now, and I can see a shining glittering mass falling. I can hear people, men and women, screaming in terror, and I smell smoke and fear in the air.

But if I did not take part, I would not be here talking to you, Monsieur Leroux, telling you my story.

Forgive me, for sometimes my mind wanders.

Where was I?

Ah, yes. I had accepted Buquet's challenge. I suppose the reason I did was because I wanted to prove that I wasn't afraid of something I had said before wasn't real.

Oh, he was real, all right. I found out first hand.

I lay back on the pallet I had made out of a row of seats, and some cushions. In the dim lights of the remaining gas lamps, the chandelier seemed ghostly as the crystals twinkled eerily; the whole theater felt like it.

I looked at the stage. 'No one's there, maybe I could…' I got up and made my way over. As I climbed up, and went to center stage, I felt like a famous actor getting ready to perform. The theater would be packed just to see, to hear this wonderful performer.

I turned and setting my eyes on Box Five, the "Phantom's" box, I began to recite a scene from _Hamlet_, which I had committed to memory. Not only were operas performed here, but also plays, especially Shakespeare.

"To be, or not to be-that is the question.

Whether tis' nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

And, by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep-

No more- and by a sleep we end the heartache."

"That's a good recitation."

I whirled around, almost falling on my ass. Christine stood there, wearing a grin that showed she'd been listening.

"You heard me?" I asked, feeling a blush spread across my face.

She laughed. "Long enough to know that you love Hamlet."

"Well, not just _Hamlet_. Shakespeare in general." That's true; I love Shakespeare, and several chunks of them I have memorized, and know by heart.

She smiled, her eyes shining with admiration as she walked over to me.

"Louis made up some food for you. I offered to give it to you." I accepted the basket with profuse thanks.

She asked "How did you memorize it so well? Not even our best actor has the elocution you have."

I smiled shyly. "Oh, I have a copy of it-my father's copy. It's in that flour sack over there." I motioned over to the sack near the edge of the stage. "I also have-let me think. Oh, yes! _Romeo and Juliet, A Midsummer's Night Dream, Much Ado about Nothing, and the_ _Sonnets_."

"Goodness! I'm getting dizzy from hearing you mention it!" We both laughed. "And they're all your father's books?" she asked.

"Well, _Romeo and Juliet _is mine."

"Oh."

After the silence that followed, I asked "How did you come to be here, Christine? I mean, you've been here longer than I have."

"Well, Madame Giry knew my father; they performed here together."

"Knew your father?"

She looked up at me, and looked out sadly across the theater. "He died when I was seven. Consumption."

"Oh, I'm sorry. And your mother?"

"She passed away after I was born."

"Oh." I felt terrible asking her that. But I had to know.

"Well, aren't you lonely sometimes?"

"Sometimes. But I have Meg, Mme. Giry," she smiled mysteriously. ", and my Angel of Music." She said softly. (J

"What?" I wasn't sure I heard her right.

"Nothing, nothing. Well, I'd better go. Mme. Giry will have my head if I'm not in by curfew."

"Wait! Do you want me to escort you back?"

She giggled. "Gaston, I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. No Opera Ghost can scare me." She turned and walked away stage left in the direction of the dormitories.

"Are you sure?"

She turned and grinned at me quoting "There are such things, Horatio." And with that, she was gone. I shook my head smiling. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who loved Shakespeare. I turned to go off, when the same feeling I had when I first came went over me; someone was watching.

"Who's there?" I asked trembling. I reached for my pocket knife, and then cursed when I remembered it had been stolen. The lights at the front of the stage suddenly went out, along with the remaining gas lamps, plunging the entire theater into darkness.

I steeled myself and shouted "If the Phantom is here, right now in this theater, come out! Why should I be afraid of someone who hides in the shadows like a coward?"

Silence. "Show yourself!" I yelled into the inky darkness. Still nothing.

_Thump!_ 'What was that?'

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle at the sound. That didn't sound like a sandbag thump; more like a pair of leather boots hitting a wood floor kind.

Through the darkness, I suddenly began to discern the shape of a man coming closer…and closer. Then, I heard a rich deep and cultured voice.

"Didn't your mother teach you not to poke your nose where it doesn't belong?"

Oh, no.

I felt terror welling up inside me as he drew nearer. Then, I saw them. His glowing eyes.

'Forget Buquet's challenge, time to run!' my conscience screamed at me. I turned and did just that, grabbing my flour sack of possessions. Of course, I should've remembered that it was dark, and that some people leave buckets out. I tripped and fell with a crash into the orchestra pit, promptly smacking my head against the railing. The last thing I saw was a face in a white mask.

Then, my world went black.

Wahoo! Boy, this chapter's long! I'll get Chapter 4 up soon! I swear!

I remain your obedient author,

Ggunsailor.

Finished 4/12/2005 9:09 PM


	4. Chapter 4

The Phantom's Manservant

Chapter Four

By

Ggunsailor

Hi! I'm going to give a shout-out to all the people who reviewed.

Andrea: Thank for being my first reviewer! I will keep it up!

Pauleen23: I'm glad you think my story is "smashing"!

Phantomphan#300: It is a good storyline, isn't it? I think you'll like this chapter!

I have a couple of stories that I use for inspiration for my stories, and they are:  
Tenebrion by Laylah

Past the Point of No Return by SpikesBint

Little Lotte's Guardian of Music by LoverofBalto; just to name a few.

You guys' stories are my inspiration. Keep writing them!

Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom.

Note: Based on the movie, but a little bit of the book thrown in.

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There are times in my life where I can't exactly recall events that took place. I suppose it comes with old age. After all, I am sixty eight. Sometimes I can remember details of my life before the Opera Populaire, and other times I can't seem to find them. But my time there, I can remember everything down to the last detail.

After I fell off the stage and blacked out, it's all a little blurry. I do remember vague things; the sensation of being picked up in very strong arms, the sound of something sliding open. Then, I recall a burst of cool air on my face, and finally being laid down on a bed of some sort. I remember hands placing a cool cloth on the lump, and then fading into unconsciousness again. I do remember this part, though. I remember it very well…

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It was the music that woke me.

The music that made me think I was in heaven, or someplace otherworldly. It wrapped itself around my soul, making me see a vision of my parents holding their arms out to me across the void. I subconsciously felt my own arms reach out in response. I wanted them to hold me in their embrace as they did when I was a child.

Then it stopped, and I awoke weeping.

"So you're awake."

That voice, that same voice I heard on the stage. Yet, for some reason, it didn't have the same menace it did before. But the tone of the voice...I can't describe it, but it was so beautiful, so enrapturing that I wanted to hear it speak again. . I turned and saw a man...with a white mask on his face! I realized with a shock that it was him...

_The Phantom of the Opera! _

I gasped in horror and sat up in fear. I immediately wished I hadn't as a lancing pain made it known. I moaned in agony, gripping my head with both hands. Suddenly, I felt his hands take my shoulders and slowly lay me back. He held a glass of water to my lips and I realized how thirsty I was. I drank down half the glass until he took it away from me. After he placed the glass on the table, he turned to look at me.

In the light of the candles (I think), I saw a man of great size and strength. I judged him to be about thirty. He wore a white silk shirt with a gold black-trimmed waist coat, and a pair of black trousers, which clung tightly to his lean, muscled form. His jet-black hair was slicked back into a prominent widow's peak. But what got me were his eyes. They seemed to hold a world's wealth of knowledge, and yet they were also filled with great sorrow.

We stared at each other, drinking in each other's appearance. The he spoke once again, and I found myself amazed at that baritone of his, the way his voice sounded like some wonderful instrument. Anyone who has ever heard _him_ sing or speak for that matter knows what I mean; he had that tone that made you melt as soon as you heard it.

"How do you feel? I must admit, the sound your head made when it hit the rail _echoed_ through the whole theater." I stared at him in incredulous amazement. The man who had tried to kill me onstage was now talking to me as if he were my doctor, my father even! "Come now, boy, I asked you a question. How do you feel?"

I answered "My name's not 'boy', its Jean."

"Really? I thought your name was Gaston."

"Well, no. Actually it's—"

"It's your father's name."

My jaw dropped. 'How did he know that?' "How did you—"

"You know, you really are a pain in the ass."

Huh? "What do you mean a pain in the ass?"

He glared at me indignantly. "If you hadn't become the hero and stopped that backdrop from falling, you wouldn't have accepted that bastard Buquet's challenge, then I wouldn't have to save your painful ass!" he snarled. I sat up again, ignoring the pain in my head.

"How dare you speak to me like that? You're worse than Carlotta!"

We both glared at each other, and then burst out laughing. "That was the best you could come up with? 'Worse than Carlotta'?" he howled. I wiped tears from my eyes. "It was the only thing I could think of!" I gasped out.

"There's no one worse _than_ Carlotta!"

"That's true!"

When the laughter finally died away, I looked at him, and I felt a sense of comadrie unlike any other time, not when I was with Louis, or Meg and Christine. He asked me about my scars and I told him.

"I'm very sorry about that."

"Thank you. Uh, _pardon_ sir?"

He groaned in frustration. "I don't like to be called 'sir'."

"Oh, sorry. Uh, do I call you 'O.G.'? That's what your letters to the management are signed."

He chuckled. "Ah, you figured out I'm the Opera Ghost."

"Well, your mask was the first clue. The cape was, too."

"You're very bright. But do you know where we are?"

"No, but it's a little chilly in here."

"Considering we're in the caves under the Opera."

"The _underground vaults_ of the Opera?"

"Yes, but you'll get used to it."

"Do I call you 'Phantom'?" I suddenly yawned. The pain was gone, and I'd become very sleepy.

He took my shoulders and lay me down once again. "I think it best if you sleep now. You'll be well-rested in the morning." He got up from his seat and walked to the doorway. "Wait…" I groaned. He turned back to me. "What do I _call_ you?"

He seemed surprised, and then he smiled and said "You can call me by my name."

"And that is?"

"Erik. Good night, _Mon ami._ We shall talk more in the morning." The door closed with a _click_.

His friend, he called me his friend. As I drifted off to sleep, one last thought went through my head.

'His name is Erik…and he called me his friend.'

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The next morning, I awoke to the smell of soup in a bowl on the table on the left side of my bed, which I noticed had the likeness of a lion carved onto the headboard. The sheets were gold silk, as was the pillowcase. As I slowly sat up, I realized the whole room was beautiful.

The stone walls were covered in blood red and gold wall hangings. A fire crackled in the carved fireplace near the door. There were two big, cozy golden armchairs; one near the fireplace, the other at a gold painted desk, which had plenty of parchment and a golden pen and inkwell. A bookshelf filled with books on all manner of subjects and novels sat next to, I realized with delight, a wall piano. Candles burned everywhere.

My stomach suddenly reminded me of the rapidly growing cold bowl of soup on the bed table. The soup didn't taste bad, but it didn't taste good either. Well, beggars can't be choosers, and I was a very hungry one. When I finished, I noticed a piece of paper that seemed to be a note. It read:

"My friend,

I have some pressing matters to attend to. I shall be back in a little while, though. I brought your possessions down while you were asleep. They're on the chair near the fireplace. There's a pitcher of water and a basin on the bed table, and clean clothes in the closet near the bookshelf.

After you freshen up, you're welcome to look around my lair. If you touch or look at something, I ask you to please put it back in the place where you found it.

Your friend,

O.G."

Well, if all the vaults looked like this room, I needed no second invitation.

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That's the end. Sorry it's so short! I need this moment to tell you that the feelings Jean has for the Phantom are not romantic or sexual (not that I have anything against that kind of relationship; some of my very good friends are gay). It's the kind of love that one feels for a friend, a son for his father, and a brother for his brother. Phew! Glad I got that out of my system.

Chapter Five will be up soon!

Finished 6/22/2005 1:18 PM


	5. Read me

To all my loyal readers and reviewers on ,

Currently this story is on a hiatus, because of my schoolwork and other things; also, I'm lost for inspiration on the next chapters or so. But don't worry, I will update them again!

In the meantime, you're welcome to check out my writing journal Quillstained on LiveJournal. The link for it will be on my profile.

Thank you all and have a good year!

Sincerely,

Ggunsailor

P.s. It doesn't mean I won't add another story for a while, so keep an eye out for that.

Cheers!


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